Upon my lap, Shannie stared at our nemesis; like a safety blanket, she draped an arm around my neck, her pulse tickling its nape. As long as I had Shannie, nothing bad would ever happen to me, I thought. I studied Shannie's flaking face of death. Ms. Dead America - death can't keep us apart, I thought.
"You know," Shannie said later. "He didn't meet my stare; He never looked at me!"
"If he was avoiding you, why didn't you say something, you know, challenge him? I asked. "What could I have said?" Shannie shrugged.. "He pretty much had our tits in a vise."
Our hemming and hawing and Shannie's scowl met big Dick Bradigan's accusation. "Why don't we check out the box?" the cop sneered. The four of us tumbled out of the small cab; Count, Steve Lucas, and I stood on Cemetery Street next to the looming officer, Shannie stood on the curb, arms folded across her chest, leering across the narrow bed of the truck.
"Open it up," Bradigan said.
"Whatever," Count sighed and opened the casket's lid. I looked to Count, who looked to the funeral directors son, who looked downward and didn't fart. "I think I was shitted out," he later bemoaned.
"Are we missing something?" Bradigan jeered as he looked into the empty coffin.
I followed Steve Lucas's lead and studied the asphalt street. Steve Lucas broke the uneasy silence: "It was that Cunt Janice, she stole the stiff…"
"We don't need to use that language!" Bradigan barked.
"You don't know my sister," Steve Lucas answered. Big Dick Bradigan slammed the coffin lid down and was met with Shannie's continuous stare. "We're going to talk with Mr. Lucas. I'll follow you."
***
"No body, no crime," Shannie said in the truck.
The elder Lucas stood outside the rear double doors of the funeral parlor, his waxen semblance glowering. A chill fell over me as I caught his image in the rearview mirror as Count backed into the funeral home's rear parking lot. For good measure, Big Dick Bradigan parked his cruiser across the curb cut. Count parked next to the hearse.
As the three of us approached the funeral director, he stared past us, as if we were invisible. His gaze appeared captured by the street light above the police cruiser. Formaldehyde clung to him like cheap cologne. Shannie spoke first. "I apologize; this was my idea and I accept responsibility." He appeared not to hear Shannie -or chose to ignore her. Instead, he lowered his gaze, locking onto the approaching image of his son and Big Dick Bradigan.